Finding a hook

I read somewhere a while back that more books were published in the last year than in the last five years combined, or something along those lines. And yet the amount of time people have to read has actually SHRUNK by…well, I don't have actual statistic on hand at the moment, but it's probably some depressingly high number. Basically, more books are out there for sale, but there are fewer eyeballs around to see them. So how is a hardworking, hard dreaming independent author supposed to make it nowadays (and by make it I mean actually sell more than a handful of copies, digital or otherwise, to paying customers who AREN'T friends or family?)

It seems to me that in order to be successful, you need to have a hook, some kind of gimmick or angle that makes you stand out from the others. Look at Edward Rutherford - he basically writes novels about physical places stretching over the centuries. Sarum, Russka, London, all basically focused on a place and various families who live there. The places in question may change, but the basic angle doesn't....and God bless him if he doesn't make a living at it.

So…I guess if you're trying to get SOMEONE to read your words, you need something to hook 'em in. Either that or wait until the day when books can be beamed directly into the brain. Which would be really cool. Unless it causes the brains in question to explode, in which case it will merely be really messy.

Neil Gaiman in the New Yorker?

Neil Gaiman profiled in the New Yorker…I never would have imagined it. The creator of the Sandman in the home of Eustace Tilley. Very informative…for instance, I never knew he wrote a biography of Duran Duran. And I will confess to crushing hard on a goth girl in college who dressed up like Death (hey, it was the 90’s….)

Here’s the link.

LARP'ing Memories...

I have confession to make: I used to be a LARP'er. That is, A Live Action RolePlayer...basically someone who goes into the woods on a weekend to be an elf or orc, and more importantly, to wail on other players with boffer weapons. You've never really live until you've come home with your body all bruised and banged up from being pounded up with foam-wrapped PVC pipe swords. The aches are badges of honor, and your lie down in your bed knowing that you have faced a worthy foe (usually IT professionals in the real world, at least in the circles I played in) in rightteous and honorable combat....

Anyway, eventually things like school, work, and an aching back put an end to that. Sometimes though, when memory lane sings it's call, I take a look at the trailer for DARKON, and and then sit back to remember a simpler time, when living in the imagination was a reality, at least for a weekend.

Here's the link. Enjoy.

THE STORM AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD: BOOK ONE is now available digitally for the Kindle on Amazon.com! Click HERE to order your copy!

Try a little variety

If there's weakness that afflicts the fantasy genre, it is often a lack of imagination about setting. Growing up, I could have stacked a pile of books higher than head filled with stories set in deep green woods popultated by elves, ogres, orcs, yadda, yadda, yadda, all medieval pseudo-Arthurian BS that seems fun until you've been playing AD&D for few years, at which point you realize that it all seems the same, and is all so boring...

For real variety, sometimes you have step beyond your preconceptions, and have a look at something that isn't set in a medieval European folklore based world. Why not something set in a fantasy version of Rome, Or China? How about a fantastical Africa that never was? Try one of the books by Barry Huighart, set in a mythical version of China, one that is amazing, brilliant, and laugh out loud funny. Or Scott Bakker, whose world is based on Byzantine and Hellenistic themes. Eric Lustbader wrote a series a while back that is set in a distinctly Oriental world. Or go old school and read John Normans Gor series.

There's more out there than shining knights on horseback and magical elf queens, that's all I'm saying....

Just a few updates

Another day, another entry...sigh...so much to say, so little time to vent.

Anyway, just a few updates today. I recently had to re-upload the text version of the novel to CreateSpace, basically to take care of a few minor formatting issues, as well as some grammatical mistakes. Still pretty new at this, figuring out how it all works and so on...if anyone got an earlier version, please let me know.

Also, the STORM AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD: BOOK ONE will soon be available for the Kindle! Check back on this site for updates.

Finally, and this has nothing to with the novel, or fantasy at all, but I'm just gonna put it out there: I've become addicted to Glee. Shows like these usually have no appeal to me, but for some reason I just can't stop watching. Maybe it's the cheerleaders....whatever it is, count me part of the Gleek nation....

Televised Mediocrity

To paraphrase Allen Ginsberg: I've seen the best televised entertainment of my generation destroyed by mediocrity.....

I apologize for the somewhat bitter tone in this post, but it seems to me that whenever a good show comes on with any fantasy or scifi elements, a show which happens to be good and go beyond genre cliches to become something truly original, it's only a matter of time before it disappears into the lack hole of cancellation . You see, last night the final episode of Kings was on NBC. For those of you who don't know what that is (and judging from the ratings that most people out there) Kings was a show that put the story of Kings David into a modern context.

It was a good show with an awesome cast, and it disappeared faster than a snowball on a sunny day. Same thing happened with Firefly and Moonlight, two other shows which had the same quality of being really, really cool. (Looks like Chuck dodged the bullet, it'll be back next season....so far anyway.)

So I ask...why is it that the really cool shows, the ones that have some element of the fantastical, never seem to last? Why do they lose out to the likes of So You Think You Can Dance, and one generic cop show after another? Thoughts, anyone?

Hope it doesn't suck...

Ah Friday…TGIF and all that.
Looking forward to a nice nowhere-near-long-enough weekend doing…well, I'm not sure yet. Something will turn up…

Following in the vein of the next to previous post…looks like one of the guys from a Stargate show as cast as the next Conan. To be honest, I'm a little bit unsure about the wisdom of remaking this film - Robert E. Howard is to me the iconic fantasy writer Little known and underappreciated in his time, it was only after his suicide that his influence was truly felt (what is it about artists not be recognized until they're dead, where among other things they don't have to be paid….) The gritty sword and sorcery setting of Hyboria provides a nice counterpoint to the mythic Middle-Earth of Tolkien, most of all in the realization that heroes don't have to be black or white when it comes to morality, that varying shades of grey work just as well, and are infinitely more fun to play around with.

So bringing this world to the screen always makes me a bit nervous, because if Hollywood is good at one thing, it's taking something that thrives best in a complex, nuanced atmosphere and boiling down into a bland, pasteurized good-guys-vs-bad-guys setting programmed for the lowest common denominator. The original Conan movie nicely skirted this dangerous trap (Conan the Destroyer not so much…if every print, video, and DVD of this embarrassment were to spontaneously combust across the world, there should be dancing in the streets…don't get me started on Red Sonja….)

Can the proverbial lightening strike twice? In other words, will it NOT suck?

The First Paying Customer!!!

It's happened! Just sold the very first copy of my novel via Amazon! Which means SOMEONE out there in the world who isn't bound to me by ties of blood or friendship saw fit to spend their hard-earned money on THE STORM AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD…whoever you are, thanks a million
times infinity, it definitely made my day. Do let me know what you think, any and all feedback is welcome (if you really enjoy it, why not post a glowing golden review on Amazon…(wink and grin))

And the world suddenly seems a happier place….

Conan and Kull...it's the music!

I'm sitting on the train watching the original CONAN THE BARBARIAN on my laptop, the sound of battle and the thunderous roar of Basil Poledouris’s soundtrack coming through the headphones, when an interesting tidbit of information came into my head. Supposedly, when John Milius was making the film way back in that mythical time known as the ‘80’s (when hair bands roamed the planet and Dungeons & Dragons remained very much the beloved underground phenomenon it sadly no longer is…shed a tear now) he was looking for a soundtrack. Dino de Laurentiis, the producer, wanted to use pop music to accompany all the slashing and hacking (given the state of the art back then, one can only cringe) but Milius held out for a full orchestral score, eventually hiring Basil Poledouris to write it (and yes, I’m copying this from Wikipedia.) The result, needless to say, is film history – the music takes a good fantasy film and elevates it to legendary status. It makes the movie as much as Ahhhnold’s muscles, and today is citied in film schools one of the finest examples of motion picture scoring…

Which leads me to point number two, another film based on a Robert E. Howard character that came out in 1997, KULL THE CONQUERER. Now, as films go, it was neither great nor mediocre. Kevin Sorbo was the man at the time because of Hercules, sword and sandal flicks were big thanks to the success of Gladiator. I saw in the theater, was pleasantly amused, and didn’t see it again. Today no one remembers it. The soundtrack for that film was basically all heavy metal riffs of the sort you hear at WWE events. It worked at the time, but no one cared five minutes later. But…if the producers for Kull (who were probably working with a bigger budget that CONAN) had chosen to spend some green on an actual orchestral, maybe KULL would have been more than a pop cultural blip?

Music makes the film like the suit makes the man. One of the films is remembered, and the other…isn’t.

My
new novel,
THE STORM AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD: BOOK ONE,
is now on sale at Amazon.com. Click on the image to the left to visit the e-store
and place an order!

More bad fantasy flicks

A while back I wrote a post about awesomely cheesy fantasy flicks, the evil cousins of The Lord of the Rings…while wandering around the ‘Net, I came across a 2008 article from Fantasy magazine that pretty much covers the same territory. Good fantasy flicks should be the sort that cause the blood to race while in the theatre and leave your imagination racing when you walk out…bad one make you cringe in your seat while your skin tries to crawl off your back.

Here’s the link…different choices than my own. Personally I didn’t think Willow was THAT bad, at leas when it first came out. Bear in mind this was back in the ‘80’s, so was seems like cheese to us would have been cream back the…besides, it had Val Kilmer, which makes up for a lot.

Amoka’s Back!

Amoka's Back!

After an absence of two years (barring a few image sehre and there on DeviantArt) the artist Amoka has a new website. For fellow George R.R. Martin fans out there, Amoka's portraits of characters from A Song of Ice and Fire helped bring the series to life in the mind of the reader.

Here's the link to the new site….this one here is my personal favorite, BTW…

Just finished S.L. Farrells A MAGIC OF TWILIGHT…pretty good read, definitely something different in the whole epic fantasy genre. Not as much emphasis on blood, guts, and glory, more about religious intrigue and the purging of heretics. Farrell creates a world very much like Renaissance Italy at the edge of the Reformation…a world in which magic and religion are one and the same. Kind of like fueling your car with prayers…t’would be awesome if that were true in real life. So long fuel crisis…not to mention the long-simmering conflict between science and faith…

I digress. In short, a good read, definitely check it out. Here’s a link to the authors site.

My
new novel, THE STORM AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD: BOOK ONE,
is now on sale at CreateSpace.com. Click on the image to the left
to visit the e-store and place an order!


Soon to be available on Amazon.com!

Wasteful horror movies....

Horror films, slasher pics, spatter fests, call ‘em what you will, they’ve always left me a bit cold. Call me a stick in the mud, but if I’m going to spend ten dollars of my hard-earned money on a movie ticket, it ain’t gonna be for Saw 70: At This Point We’re Just Going Through the Motions. Sitting in an overly air-conditioned movie theater, watching some schmuck getting skinned alive with a chainsaw while beings dipped headfirst in a vat of battery acid by a squad of drug-crazed demon-worshiping mutant cultists doesn’t really strike me as all that scary… just somewhat nauseating. But more than anything else, it’s just wasteful.

The thought occurred to me a few years back, when I was on a first date and the lady in question wanted to see House of Wax. Needless to say there wasn’t a second date…but as I was sitting there watching Paris Hilton being chopped to pieces (I’ll avoid any snarky comments…feel free to post your own though….) I realized what was so objectionable about that kind of flick. Every horror movie ever made has been filled with the latest Pretty Young Things on offer from Hollywood, whose ultimate fate is to be ground into hamburger. Pretty girls in tight clothes (and the obligatory handsome guy going about without his shirt on) being chopped by the psycho/demon/cannibal/etc. Why is it that no one ugly or even average looking gets eviscerated? It just seems a waste of hotness…like some weird consumerist fetish, who gets to run out of pretty faces first….

Or maybe I’m just getting frugal and grouchy in my old age. What do you think?

The Golden Age of the pulps is coming back…at least in the movies.

They’re remaking Conan the Barbarian, they're looking at one of the guys from the Twilight series to star. From sparkly vampire to loincloth-clad barbarian…I’m sure there’s a quip in there, but damned if I can think of it, at least one that won’t bring a flush to these fair cheeks…here’s the link.

John Carter of Mars…surprised it took so long to bring Edgar Rice Burroughs legendarium to the silver screen. Burroughs basically helped kickstart the Golden Age of Fantasy. To my mind his Barsoom had much more of an impact that Tarzan, everything that has come has roots in it, from Buck Rogers to Battlestar Galactica Taylor Kitsch as John Carter, Lynn Collins as Dejah Thoris…but for me the really cool thing is Willem Dafoe as Tars Tharkas. If anyone can poll off playing a four armed eight-foot tall alien warrior, it’s the guy who to life Agent Smecker in the Boondock Saints….

The kids are taking over

Percy Jackson and the Olympians is coming to the silver screen…Eragon came from nowhere to be a publishing phenom…pretty much the whole paranormal vampire romance thing is being taken over by the YA set…oh yeah, and Harry Potter.

Is it just me, or is all the really big stuff happening in fantasy fiction these days being targeted towards the not-yet-old-enough-legally-drink-drive-or-vote set?

New York Ren-Faire

Here's an old post from the summer...one of the better ones from the MySpace page, Enjoy!

Given the scorching heat over the weekend, going to the New York Renaissance Faire might not have been a good idea.

So, here’s how it went. I get up early on Sunday morning, and spend the next two hours headed down the New York Thruway to the quaint little town of Tuxedo (yes, it has something to do with the suit, don’t ask me what…) For those not familiar with the geography of the Tri-State area, the Thruway is basically a drag-racing strip masquerading as a toll road, populated mainly by morons in SUV’s and ‘vettes who have the opinion that anyone driving under 70 miles an hour is fair game for tailgating…but that’s a whole other gripe. I pull into the abandoned airfield serving as a parking lot, hike up a steep hill to the main entrance, and just like that leave the mundane workaday world for a magical realm full of whimsy and wonder…

Okay, not really. But close enough for now…more or less. I’ve aways enjoyed a good ren faire, but to be honest I’m also a bit divided about them. On one hand it’s a place where imagination can run wild, where a computer programmer who spends his days chained to a desk can dress up in leather armor and reproduction sword, and for a few blessed hours indulge the fantasy that’s actually a mighty-thewed knight who slays dragons for breakfast…and rub shoulders with pretty young women dressed to kill (no pun intended) as princesses, sorceresses, and Red Sonja warrior women…and showing a lot of bare midriff in the process (not that I’m complaining….)

On the other hand, it’s overrun with screaming kids, the food is both terrible and overpriced (what do gyros have to do with the Renaissance?) and all those bad English accents start to grate after five minutes. It’s even more awkward when there are actual British people visiting the faire, and you start to wonder what our trans-Atlantic cousins much think – although the ones I saw looked like they were having a blast, despite the near-tropical heat. And when it comes to the costume…well, being in character isn’t always a good thing for some people. For every wannabe Aragorn or Xena wandering about, drawing admiring glances for their trim physique and fine reproduction leaher bracers and chain mail halter, there’s some biker dude walking around wearing what looks like S&M bondage gear (in some cases accompanied by his son in matching costume), or a women dressed like a genie without the …erm, figure to pull it off (the cigarette ash was also a bit off-putting.)

Do I give the impression that I wasn’t enjoying myself? In fact, nothing could be father from the truth…I love ren faire, despite the flaws. In fact, they make benefits all the more treasured. Once a year, for a few hours, I actually live in a world that in other times only exists between the pages of a novel or in my head. Or at the very least, in a for-profit simulacrum that is the closest approximation to the not-posssibly-real thing…of course, there’s also LARP’ing…but I’ve never been able to do that with a straight face. The boffer weapons are fun though… Anway, despite the drawbacks, for a hardcore geek like myself, the ren faire is a blessed refuge from the cold harshness of modern reality, where I immerse myself in something tha is pure fantasy without earing the mockery of less intelligent minds that can’t appreciate the wonders of the imagination….

And if that doesn’t work, watching hot women (barely) dressed as nymphs and fairies is also pretty cool. Definitely worth putting up with the overpriced mead and drunk idiots hitting on the flower girls.

Here's the link if you want to know more. Thoughts, anyone?

The more incomprehensible, the better

I was going through Scott Bakker’s Darkness that Comes Before (cool book by the way, very dark….) when it occurred to me that when it comes to fictional languages in fantasy novels, the more incomprehensible the better.

See, most writers aren’t going to be on the same level as the Almighty Tolkien, who basically invented his languages first, the created the world around them…in most cases what you see in the standard fantasy language is gibberish dressed up to look plausible. So making it as unpronounceable and exotic as possible serves this purpose, since anything with a lot of X’s and letters separated by commas looks so weird that it must be true, at least within it’s context…

Daybreakers

Saw Daybreakers over the weekend…pretty decent flick actually, I left the theatre feeling moderately entertained, which at this time of year is not something to sneeze at (January is where Hollywood sends movies to die….) The whole vampirism-as-allegory-for-corporate-greed is a new take on a genre that increasingly seems set in its ways. Plus, its nice to see a vamp flick that actually portrays them in the traditional way – as bloodthirsty monsters that burn in the sun and hunt down their terrified human prey, instead of sparkly skinned Byronic-hero romantic types designed to make teenage girls and their mothers weak at the knees. Nah, give me stake through the heart, exploding heads, and enough blood-colored corn syrup to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool….

Top Ten Cheesy Fantasy Movies

You're on the couch. The popcorn is hot and buttered, the glass is filled with something cold and fizzy. You pick up the remote, ready to embark on a cinematic journey of wonder and magic..but wait! What is that smell? That harsh order of Limburger, that sharp Cheddar aftertaste in your mouth? It is a warning, an omen, a harsh reminder, that when it comes to movies in the fantasy genre, not everything is gonna be a absolute mystical masterpiece like Return of the King. Sometimes you're gonna get a late night mutant with crappy production values, worse acting, and a storyline that could have been written by a two month old monkey. On acid. A absolute POS chunk of drek that sends a shudder down the spine and haunts your dreams at night..and yet, as soon as it ends you have to see again, if only because your brain can't believe what it just saw.

Sometimes, you're gonna get CHEESE.

Lists are a big thing right now, there's one for everything. Top ten wines, vacation destination, top ten movies especially...which got me to thinking. What about a list for the top ten fantasy movies of all time? Only...it's been done, go on the 'Net and you'll find someone's beaten you to the punch. (Look here, here, and here for examples of this.)

Then the other day I was watching the Beastmaster and it occurred to me, what about a top ten list of the cheesiest fantasy movies ever made? I'm sure its been done elsewhere, but what the heck. I'll take a stab at it. For when it comes to that rare combination of bad and really-bad, fantasy has a rich and lamentable history, especially when it comes to film.

So here it is, my list of those campy cinematic moments that make you cringe in your seat, wince your eyes in horror, and burn a scar in your memory long after the credits have rolled.

10: The Beastmaster
An instant trash classic if there ever was one. VERY loosely based on an Andre Norton novel of the same name. Featuring Rip Torn as a child-burning high priest with a name like an antacid, Tanya Roberts running around in what looks like a cutoff t-shirt, and of course Marc Singer as Dar, the Man Who Talks to Animals, signified by his wearing a few scraps of leather...and not much else. Oh yeah, and two ferrets named Kodo and Podo. It likely would have faded into obscurity long ago, except that TBS, when it was getting off the ground played it a lot, to the point that people began calling it The Beastmaster Station. It's status as a Cult Classic spawned two 'inferior' sequels.

9: Krull
Aliens with laser guns invade a world where people fight with swords. Naturally the guys with swords win...aided by a mystical weapon called The Glaive, which looks like a frisbee with razorblades. Is it just me, or does that not make any sense? Notable for having both Liam Neeson and Robbie Coltrane in minor roles early in their careers.

8: Zardoz
Featuring a post-Bond Sean Connery wearing red bondage gear, and a flying stone head (named Zardoz) from which comes the following immortal lines:
The gun is good. The penis is evil. The penis shoots seeds, and makes new life to poison the Earth with a plague of men, as once it was, but the gun shoots death, and purifies the Earth of the filth of brutals. Go forth . . . and kill!

7: Conan the Destroyer
The first Conan movie was a fantasy masterpiece that captured the spirit of Robert E. Howard's stories. The sequel did not. You have to wonder though...when it came out in 1984, how many people watching it would have pegged the Big Guy With the Sword as the future Governator of California? Interesting side note: a third movie, entitled Conan the Conqueror was planned, but by that point Arnold Schwartzeneggar had moved beyond playing sword-swinging barbarians.

6: Red Sonja
Seeking to mine Howard's legacy for a third time, Dino De Laurentiis inflicted this B-movie classic on the unsuspecting eyeballs of theater audiences everywhere...at least the ones that bothered to show up; it flopped at the box office. It featured the movie debut of Brigitte Nielsen, who until then was an unknown Danish model.

5: Masters of the Universe
A cheesy movie, based on a cheesier Saturday morning cartoon, based on a really cheesy toy franchise. Starring Dolph Lundgren (which by itself qualifies for this list) and Frank Langella as Skeletor. According to the Wikipedia entry, another live-action version is the works. Be afraid.....

4: Highlander II: The Quickening
For those who grew up watching the Highlander TV show based on the movie franchise, seeing the original version of this sequel was downright mystifying, with the Immortals being aliens from the planet Zeist.... When the TV series began in the 1990's it was recut with all references to the aliens removed..and then more or less ignored.

3: Kull the Conqueror
Hollywood has not been kind to Robert E. Howard...a wonderful pastiche of bad fantasy cliches and worse dialogue. And it has Kevin Sorbo.

2: Clash of the Titans
I remember seeing this when I was little...and as far as I'm concerned Ray Harryhausens stop-motion effects are still better than anything done by CGI. Featuring a who's-who list of British thespian royalty (Laurence Olivier, Maggie Smith, Sian Phillips) along with a very young Harry Hamlin. Greek mythology with a generous helping of cheddar. Also, a remake is in the works, scheduled for 2010.

1: Flash Gordon
Yeah, I know, It's not technically a fantasy film, but come on! This is high camp at it's finest, in fact the writers deliberately made it that way! It was produced by Dino De Laurentiis, and has soundtrack by Queen! The special effects, the costumes, the acting...especially the acting...when it comes to the pure essence of cheese, this movie set a new standard. Any true fan of the fantasy film will have this treasure in his collection. FLASH! AHHHHHHHH! As the saying goes, they don't make 'em like they used too...

So there it is, the top ten list of Cheesy Fantasy Movies...or at least my opinion on the matter. Wiser heads than mine might disagree...and if you do please post a comment! Now sit back, relax, and taste the fromage.

Excerpt from my upcoming novel, THE STORM AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD: BOOK ONE!!!!

Check out this except from my upcoming novel THE STORM AT THE CENTER OF THE WORLD: BOOK ONE! Coming soon at jonconnington.com. Download a pdf copy by clicking here, and share it with the world!



Macsen dun Mocredd reckoned it began the day he helped Adag the undersider hide his crop from the tax man. At that time, on Perun, this was not considered unusual.



“Careful, there!” Adag shouted up, one hand gripping the rope, his good right eg jammed into a foothold. Macsen slowly lowered the basket, his feet braced
against a wooden post driven deep into the ground. “Down...down....stop! All right, tie it off!”



“Hold on.” Macsen wrapped the rope twice around the post, and picked up another coil. He looped the free end through the wooden ring at the back of his climbers
belt and moving to the edge. Bracing his bare feet on the rocky face he rappelled down the climbing line along the side of Perun, the ancient dark rock of the
land before his eyes. Below him was open sky, the Endless Blue, broken only by a handful of clouds. Anything that fell would plummet until it hit something,
or was taken by the Great Storm.



“Come here, boyo.” Adag had the lid off the basket. Inside were thirty gray mushrooms the size of a man’s fist, the stems below the caps dried and shriveled.
Adag took one out and inhaled it's aroma. “Ah, isn’t that lovely? Far to nice to waste on a Naurite thief.”



“This is the last one?” Macsen asked, shivering a bit. Winter wasn’t far off, the wind had a bite to it.



“Aye. Get in there.”



Macsen swung himself in feet first, stifling a curse as his elbow bumped against the side. He’d grown six inches in the past year and mossholes that had been
easy fits were now tight. Lanky with youth, he was only now starting to fill out with muscle. He had black hair, common on Perun, green eyes that people
claimed he got from his mother and a squarish chin they said came from his father. Both had died when he was young.



Wispy hanging moss brushed against Macsen’s face as he bumped his way into the mosshole. This one had been in use for generations and the growth was very thick,
to the point that that the monthly harvests were enough to feed a third of Erdenec, although few would relish a daily diet of moss soup. At the back of the cave
the growth was practically wall-like. Macsen moved in until his legs were bent up near his chest, turning over on his side. He felt around with his fingers
for the narrow cut in the moss bed, lifting up the thick green-gray carpet, exposing the rock below. A small chamber was cut in the floor of the tunnel,
half-filled with fundors from Adags patch. Macsen dumped the ones in the basket, adding them to the pile.



In two days the tax collector from Inisi would come. He would have little interest in moss, it was considered peasant food of little value, and hence was one of
the few things not taxed by Perun's foreign overlords. But fundor's were another matter entirely. The mushrooms grew only on the undersides of lands, or in deep
underground caverns. A good patch could produce several thousand with each harvest. Adag's lay twenty feet below the edge, an acre of craggy rock colored a deep
green with caps, pocked here and there by his mossholes. When harvested they were tasteless, the flesh almost impossible to chew. The caps and upper part
of the stems would be cut free, wrapped in cloth sheets and hung on racks to dry in the wind for up to a year. During this time the outer skins would turn
hard as stone, and could only be opened with a hammer. But when cracked the flesh inside would be soft and crumbly, with a deep earthy taste and smell.
Scooped out and ground into meal it could be baked into cakes that were reckoned a delicacy, gracing the tables of the rich. When mixed with certain spices it
became a medicine that was said to ease many ailments.



But for the Peruneks, ground fundors served another, far nobler purpose; as the main ingredient in osec, the fiery distilled spirit that their island was
known (or rather infamous) for. In the old days, before the foreigners came, osec was a valued commodity, drunk during the winter for strength, used in celebration
of the saints, even traded as currency. Peruneks would give osec as tribute to their clan chiefs; a gallon would buy a farmer a new shawl for his wife,
ten gallons for an ostot to pull his plow, or a fine carved spearhead from the woodshaper. For Peruneks, osec was the water of life itself.



But the Naurites who held this part of Perun had little use for the drink, considering it a foul concoction fit only for savages. But they did value the Perunek's
fundors...and wheat, and wool, and anything else they could extract. Twice a year the tax collector would take half of the village's produce. Some would
be sent back across the skies to distant Nauria, whose king welcomed the revenue, the rest kept by the foreign lords that had replaced the old chieftains. There
was no appeal, no clemency, the Naurites collected their due regardless of the consequences.



Therefore, hiding the harvest from the prying eyes of the tax men was a necessary skill on Perun.



Macsen hid the last of the fundors and pulled the moss back, making sure it lay flat and smooth. The tax collector wouldn’t likely climb down to look, but
there might be someone with him who knew enough to search. He unhooked a small water bottle on his belt and sprinkled the contents over the moss to keep it
from turning brown, then humped his way back out to the rock face.



“Good work.” Adag unhooked his wooden knife and cut loose a swatch of moss. “Here, as promised.”



Dinner for a week. Macsen stuffed the moss under his shirt. Digging his toes into the rock, he hauled himself back up to the top.



At the end of Erdenecs single, muddy street was a small cottage with new thatch on the roof. Macsen pushed open the door. A quiet voice greeted him. “There are weeds in the garden.”



“Yes sir, I know.”



“I take it you were helping the undersider. You mentioned something about that.”



“Er...yes, I was.” He took out the moss.



“No harm then.” A pen scratched its way across paper. “Whenever you’re ready.”



Macsen hesitated. There were two tables in the one-room cottage, both covered with books. Macsen was amazed, the first time saw lay eyes on them. It didn’t seem possible that so many books could exist in one place at the same time. That many books didn’t exist in the whole world. Now, after three months they barely drew his eye.



“Put the moss on the books. They won’t mind.” A page turned.



Macsen nodded, laying the swatch on the bound wooden cover of...he tried to make out the words, it was still difficult after three months....



“It's a treatise on the various plants and herbs to be found in Eastern Perun.” Agil the Skywatcher’s voice had a trace of an accent in it, through his Perunek was otherwise flawless. “Nothing there that would interest you, I should think.” A pause. “Isn’t there something you need to do?”



Macsen grabbed a two-pronged hoe by the door. A moment later he was the garden pulling weeds, working as quickly as he could.



Agil had come to Erdenec a few months back, arriving one day on a cart loaded with boxes, a youngish man with blond hair somewhere in his third decade of
life. When asked where he was from, Agil had replied, “Audran.” No one in the village had the slightest idea where that might be, although they guessed it was far, far away. That made him a foreigner, not the most welcome sight these days. It had been Adag the undersider who figured out the stranger was a Skywatcher-- he'd been a mercenary in Tamistal years ago, until the loss of his leg sent him home. “Fellow talks as fine as that, he’s either a noble or a Skywatcher. And no noble would live here.”



Ghelen, the village headman, rented out the empty cottage to the Skywatcher in exchange for a finely woven carpet. At first the people of Erdenec reacted to his presence the way any small rustic village would; with unthinking suspicion, especially given Perun's recent history. Two days after his arrival several of the village wives appeared at Agil’s door and demanded to know his business here. “I’m merely looking for some peace,” he’d replied in his quiet way. It didn't satisfy them



One of the women went to Ghelen, demanding that he do something about the stranger. “He’s a foreigner, she had said in a voice loud enough to be heard across the village, “and they always bring trouble!”



Ghelen listened to her view, nodding once in a while to show that he cared. But while he may have valued her opinion, he also valued the fine new carpet hanging on his wall. His wife liked showing it off to the other women when they came to visit. And he certainly wouldn’t appreciate having to give it back, or the domestic turmoil that would follow. So Ghelen ignored the complaints and let the Skywatcher stay.



Skywatchers. They...well, they watched the sky, the name said it all. Supposedly they studied the stars and watched the winds, and thus were able to plot the cycles of all the lands, the path they all followed on their endless journey through the skies. This was done, it was said, to help ships and other travelers find their way across the blue, and sometimes to predict if and when a collision between lands was imminent. That last bit sent the village into a stir, when it was mentioned. Maybe Perun’s cycle was about to send it into the path of another land. Eventually this got back to Agil, who went to the headman to explain that Perun’s cycle was safe, that no collision was imminent, and would he please make sure the villagers understood this.



After a while they came to accept the Skywatcher. A month after Agil arrived, Cial the woodshapers son was careless with a sharpening knife while putting a final edge on a farmers reaping blade. His arm was badly gashed, and though his father was able to bind the cut and stop the bleeding, within a day the wound was red and swollen. Three days later it was leaking yellow stinking pus, and despite the need Ceandin couldn’t bring himself to amputate his own son’s arm. Putting hot coals into the wound to cauterize it didn’t help, indeed seemed to make it worse, while prayers to the Blessed Ania went unanswered. By the fourth day Galliarg was ready to say the Prayer of Passage for the Dying, and usher the ailing young man into the glory of Heaven.



Then Agil very respectfully asked if he might have a look at Cial’s arm. After a brief examination he put some sort of ointment that smelled faintly of burnt bread on the wound. Within a day the swelling was gone and Cial was awake. By the following week he was back on his feet in his father's workshop, where he treated sharpening knives with greater respect.



Soon after, old Galliargs aching back didn't ache so much, again thanks to the Skywatcher, who showed the priest how to brew another ointment from some local flowers. Galliarg naturally became far better disposed towards Agil, and many in the village followed his lead.



What happened next was even more interesting. Lord Ondeleol, the Naurite lord who now ruled these lands, had heard that a Skywatcher was living in Erdenec. Curious--and eager for the status a resident Skywatcher would bring him--he came to the village and spoke with Agil. The conversation they'd had was in Perunek, since Agil claimed to have no Naurite and Lord Ondeleol, the younger son of a minor border lord who’d been rewarded for his service, spoke only his own tongue. An interpreter versed in both languages carried the conversation between them.



“A flyspeck hovel such as this is no place for a man of distinction such as yourself. Return with me to the castle. There you will be housed in a manner befitting your station.”



“With regret, my lord, I must decline.”



“What do you mean, decline?”



“I would rather stay here.”



“In this festering dung heap?”



“Yes, my lord.”



“These oafs need a Skywatcher like sheep need shoes!”



“Nonetheless, I would remain here. This place in important for my work.”



“And what would that be?”



“It concerns the passage of clouds.”



“Clouds?”



“To be more precise, their wings.”



“Clouds have wings?”



“Of course. How else would they stay up in the sky?”



“But...I’ve never seen wings on a cloud!”



“That’s not surprising. They’re invisible.”



“Clouds have invisible wings?”



“That they do, my lord.”



There was a long pause. “Are you mocking me?”



“Certainly not, my lord! I would never mock a man of your stature! Indeed, we Skywatchers are well aware of the respect men such as your lordship are owed!”



“As lord of these lands, I could compel you to obey me.”



“Actually, my lord, you do not have that right. The Terms of Aid between our Governing Council and your King state that Skywatchers in Naurite lands shall answer only to the Master of our Great House in Aleition, or to the King and his designated agents so long as their requests do not violate our oaths.” The standard response, which every Skywatcher was taught for situations like this. “The Master in Aleition is aware of my presence here. You have no authority over me.”



“I have two hundred men at arms! Words mean nothing against that!”



“Any interference with my work shall not be looked upon with favor.” Agils voice remained calm, but unyielding. “It would be brought to the attention of the highest authority. As I said, my presence is known here.”



“Are you...”



“The King in all his wisdom has placed the Skywatchers under his personal protection. Harm against one is harm against us all...and the honor of the King.” Another pause, and then, “This is a royal grant, these lands of yours, are they not?”



Lord Ondeleol left in a foul temper. The villagers were impressed. They had never seen anyone stand up to the Naurite swine, or see him rebuffed with nothing but words.



A few days later Agil was laboring in the little garden he’d planted behind the house, cursing in a sonorous language that was his native tongue. Macsen had approached him. “Can I help you, sir?” the boy asked.



“By all means,” Agil had replied. “I fear my talents do not extend to the mysterious art of planting beans.” Two days later, with the first green shoots poking up through the soil, Agil asked, “What can I offer you in return? I have very little to give, but....”



“I don’t want a rug or anything like that,” Macsen said.



“Then what do you want?”



Macsen paused a moment before answering. “Teach me letters.”



“To read and write?”



“Yes.”



Agil mulled that over. “Why not go to the priest? He seems an amiable sort, and he did raise you.”



“Galliarg doesn’t know how to do it very well. He says that’s why he holds a church here instead of in one of the towns. He has the scriptures in the church, but never opens it. He says he has all the important bits in his head anyway, so there’s no need.”



“Sounds like a practical man.” Another long pause. “To teach you your letters would require some time, weeks certainly. Those beans only took two days to plant.”



“The beans will need to be tended. And I can plant other things as well, onions or carrots...er, potatoes maybe. And I can help you with your work. Whatever it is, you could use another pair of hands....”



“So you would be my assistant? And I would teach you to read and write.” He nodded. “Very well, we have an agreement.”



And that’s how it started. He maintained the garden and kept up the house. Sometimes the Skywatcher would leave for a day or two, and Macsen to watch over his possessions. Three times Macsen accompanied him into the countryside, where Agil stared at the ground or dug up various ordinary looking plants, which he would carefully examine before tossing aside. Once the Skywatcher trekked out all the way to the Three Sisters, a trio of low mounds almost half a days walk to the west of Erdenec. He stood for a while, looking at the middle mound through a forked stick, before turning around and walking back, muttering to himself in his own language and offering no explanation. For his part, Macsen was thankful for the quick departure; the Three Sisters were supposed to be haunted, and it was best to avoid them at night.



And as promised, Agil taught him to read and write. They began with a piece of slate, tracing out the letters of the Codalian alphabet with a bit of charcoal, then whole words, and then sentences. And then onto the books, or rather, the book. Agil had brought many leatherbound volumes with him, but most were written in strange kanguages. Some were in Audran, Agils mother tongue, others in Codalian, the language of the Church. Some were in a tongue called Inra, the language of the Skywatchers. Only one was in Perunek; THE LIFE OF THE KING, by someone named Segius.



Agil had Macsen copy out each letter, each word and sentence. When the slate was full he would read it back, haltingly at first, then with growing confidence, while Agil checked it written against the book. The KING in the title was Donek dun Linek, known as Donek Stonehand, one of the few High Kings of Perun to actually have been High King in fact as well as name. He’d united the clans with strength, vision, leadership, and when all that failed with ruthless force. For a generation Perun had been united and at peace. But his heirs proved to be less capable, as was usually the way of things. Donek was the subject of legends, of songs and poetry sung by bards before the invaders had banned their sort. Even Macsen had heard of him.



One page a day, that was the rule. This day, after the weeds were done, it was page twenty-nine, the old parchment crackling slightly under his fingers, the charcoal scraping along the slate. “In the year 713 of the Blessed Messenger a...traveler came to the court of the...the High King, bearing gifts of metal and precious....He paused, frowned, and pointed at a words he couldn’t make out.



“Spices,” Agil said.



“...Spices. He begged friend....friendship of the High King, and asked only to be allowed to...con...con....”



“Conduct.”



“...Conduct his business in Perun. Such permission was granted and the stranger went on his way. Soon reports c...came to the High King about the merchant and various foul deeds being...com...committed. It was said that he approached the chieftains and proposed that they should sell....sell those being held in the strongholds for crimes into bon...bondage. The High King demanded that the stranger appear before him and a...account for his actions. The stranger offered to the king a gift...”



He paused, unable to believe what it said. “A ring of gold in re...re...recompense, to allow the stranger to continue his work on Perun. The High King took the ring and all the gifts had brought and....flung them to the winds, calling them things of the Deciever. He banished the stranger from the land, never to re...return.” Macsen looked up. “He flung the gold over the edge?”



“According to Segius.”



“But...gold....” Macsen tried to picture it and failed. All metals were precious, and none more than gold. An iron ring could buy a farm, a bronze ring a village. A gold ring.... He couldn’t imagine that kind of wealth. He had never seen gold, no one in the village had. It was the stuff of legend.



Agil looked at him. “Not everything can be bought, Macsen.”



“But with gold he could...” Again words failed him. What could a man do within something like that? What couldn’t he do?



“Perhaps he considered doing what was right more important.”



“I would have kept it.”



Agil nodded gravely. “As would I, perhaps, if faced with the same choice. We are but ordinary men. But for kings, such choices are never simple.” For a moment Macsen thought he heard a bit of an edge in the Skywatchers voice. “Right, best continue, we've a lot of work to do. Besides, in two days, you know what will happen.”



As if Macsen needed reminding.





Tax day.



Erdenec been dreading it. Farmers hid their grain in pits dug deep in out of the way fields. Sheep, goats and pigs were driven into the deep woods and high hills, fundors hidden in moss holes. All in preparation for this twice-yearly calamity that blighted their lives without fail, inflicted by those who took it as their duty and right to squeeze as much fat from the land as possible...while the Peruneks strove mightily to withhold as much of it as they could get away with. The whole affair seemed almost like a game, a childish hide-and-go-seek between the peasants who paid and their foreign overlords who collected...until one remembered the penalties involved and the punishments inflicted. Such as branding with hot coals, mutilation, even being hurled over the edge into the sky, what was known as being ‘thrown to the winds.’



But for the peasants it was no choice at all. This year the Naurites demanded one bushel out of every three, one pig out of every two, nearly all the fundors, more of this, more of that, more and more of more and more. Only the moss was left alone, and who knew how long that would last? Families needed to be fed, no one wanted to see their children go hungry. If you paid, you starved. It was the same everywhere across Perun. For fifteen years the land had been divided between Naurites in the east and their Albish rivals in the west. The old chieftains were gone, their strongholds garrisoned by foreign troops. The last High King was a permanent 'guest' in the Naurite court. The Peruneks had their pride, their clans had made the invaders fight long hard, but they still lost in the end, and the bitterness ran deep.



Even now some of the hotter heads muttered about showing those Naurite bastards that the sons of Perun would only be pushed so far. More than grain was hidden in those pits. The Naurites had done their best to disarm Perun, but in a land where everyone was expected to own a weapon and know how to use it, that was a hard proposition. Swords were hidden under floors, spears stuck up in the rafters. Revolts were an annual occurrence. The higher the taxes the worse the muttering, and the more nervous the Naurite garrisons.



But things were calm today, mainly due to Ghelen; the headman was weary of violence and his word still carried weight. All the villagers, men, women, and children, were gathered in a field before the church. Noontime approached and the Naurites were arriving.



Seven wagons came along the road, followed by an ornate coach bouncing over the ruts. Each wagon was pulled by a team of shaggy emroths, four-footed beasts with drooping noses that hung down and swished in the air as they walked and neatly-trimmed tusks jutting from their mouths. Sitting in the lead wagon was the familiar and not-at-all welcome sight of the tax collector, a clerk sent from Aleitian, doubtless the son a merchant looking to advance his station in life and just as routinely snubbed by the noble lord who ruled this place. The village was all too familiar with his type.



The carriage drew their eyes. The coat of arms was freshly painted on the door, a pair of crossed axes on a red field, split by a yellow fish for some reason. It was pulled by four horses, actual white horses. Lord Ondeleol was here. There was some muttering at that, the day’s business would be that much more difficult. And those fine horses, brought from Tamistal at great expense, paid for by the work of their hands....



The collector hopped down, his legs stiff. He was a young fellow with dispirited eyes, looking forward to the day he could leave Pereun forever. Ghelen bowed. “Your Honor," he said, "Erdenec offers its welcome.”



“Your hospitality is accepted,” the tax collector replied impatiently, his tone not matching his words. He was eager to be gone, nervous that Lord Ondeleol had, for some unfathomable aristocratic reason, decided to accompany this trip. He didn't tell the tax collector why. Noble lords rarely confided in the likes of him. “Let's get on with it.”



“As you wish, your Honor.”



The crowd parted as they went towards the church. A soldier followed with a battered ledger under one arm. "According to the records, the Royal Examiner was here two years ago and gave the following report." The tax collector opened a wax noteboard. “Concerning the village of Erdenec, there are two hundred and twenty-three souls, not including children of less than three summers. Head of cattle...none, head of sheep...four hundred and three, ostots...seven, horses...none, lebbens or geppeks...none. Bushels of wheat per harvest....” He rattled off the information, a detailed accounting of the village and what it produced. Setting it up was the first thing the Naurites did once the fighting ended. Examiners were sent out into the countryside to determine who held what, how much of it, and how much more could reasonably be expected. Every two years the accountings were updated.



As expected, the Examiners were greatly resented by the populace, facing threats and even armed resistance, to the point that they went their business under guard. Ghelen preferred a more subtle approach. His cousin, a peddler who sometimes visited Lord Ondeleol’s stronghold, told him that the Examiner in residence had gained a taste for fine aged osec. On his next visit the headman greeted him with several large jars. The following morning, and in a midst of a ferocious angover, the Examiner made his survey of Erdenec, which, as hoped, undervalued the worth of the village. It made the divine task of cheating the Naurites that much easier, sparing them the need to invent excuses as to why their harvests were poor every year.



Piled next to the church were the accumulated taxes for Erdenec. Even with all the hiding and burying the losses were still dearly felt. The villagers watched with frustration as the tax collector opened sacks of grain, inspected bales of wool, small bags of fundors, feathers gathered from pitries-those small, brilliantly colored birds who nested in the stone hives set along the edge...and more besides. The man worked quickly, knowing he was unloved and that the lord was impatient.



The villagers murmured, causing him to turn. The door of the carriage had opened and a pair of booted feet appeared, followed by the rest of Lord Ondeleol. He was of medium height, with long brown hair that hung just past his shoulders and was now thinning on top, a bare chin and a bristly mustache. He wore tight breeches and a green tunic with brown braid on the shoulders. A small brass ring was on his right hand, and around his neck a worked iron pendant hanging on a braided leather thong. After him came a tall, thin woman, noticeably younger than her husband, her blond hair worked into braids curled about her ears. Her blue dress seemed very fine to Erdenec's women, but would have been mocked as hideously rustic back in the courts of Nauria.



A third man stayed within the carriage. He looked young to those who glimpsed him, and pale as if recently ill. His hair was cut so close to stubble that it was hard to tell the color. His eyes and face remained hidden in the shadows of the carriage.



Lord Ondeleols wife fidgeted, bored and showing her distaste for the village. Her husband spoke with their companion in the carriage, their words to low to hear. The tax collector finished his inspection of the goods, and was deeply suspicious. He looked at Ghelen's friendly face, then at the impassive Perunek villagers, sensing their hostility. He went over to the carriage.



“My lord,” he said in the Naurite tongue, hand over heart.



“Are you done?” Lord Ondeleol asked.



“My lord, I am deeply troubled. This village is better off than the accounts claim. The Examiner may have been mistaken.”



"So?” The noble had the uncomprehending impatience men of the sword displayed for men of the pen.



"My lord,” the tax collector said, biting back his frustration. “I believe these peasants are hiding much of what they owe. I ask your leave to conduct a thorough search of this village and the surrounding fields....”



“Nonsense! The taxes are here, load them up and let’s be on our way!”



“My lord....”



“I've already spent to much time in this dung heap. My lady wife grows tired,” she flinched at his voice, “and the day wears on. I want to be back in Inisi come nightfall, not camped in some muddy field.”



“My lord, the King....”



“The King's not here, little man. I am.” His tone grew menacing.



The tax collector bowed his head. “As my lord commands.” He turned to the soldiers. “You lot! Load those sacks! Quickly!”



The soldiers repeated the order to the villagers in heavily accented Perunek. Sacks and bales were loaded into the waiting wagons, the tax collector supervising. As he passed the carriage he heard Lord Ondeleol say to the stranger, “So, do we have an agreement?”



He didn’t hear the answer.





“He came here,” Macsen said the next day, sitting with Agil. “The Naurite lord and his wife! I never knew men could dress so fine.”



“It must have been a sight.” Agil stirred his soup with a wooden spoon. He listened, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. The Skywatcherwasn't in the village when the lord came. He'd left that morning, alone with a satchel over his shoulder, not telling no one where he was headed.



Something was on his mind. Oblivious, Macsen continued babbling. “I wonder who he was, back where he came from. He must have been someone very grand....”



“Highly doubtful. Ondeleol is the younger son of a minor lord, likely a Marcher Warden on the Syllish border from his accent. When he reached his eighteenth year he was sent out into the world with his sword and armor to make his way.”



Macsen frowned. “You know him?”



“I know his type. Poor knights, hoping to carve a place in this cruel world. They commend themselves to the household of whatever lord will take them in, fight in the tournaments for honor and prizes in times of peace, and flock to battlefields like flies on rotting meat when war comes. When Berovan of Nauria invaded Perun a horde of men just like Ondeleol answered his summons with great eagerness. He must have done some singular act of slaughter to be receive a lordship. Oh yes, I know his sort well.”



Agil blinked, and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Right, enough of that. Start copying that page.” He went back to his soup.



There was silence in the cottage for a while. Then Macsen asked the question that had been on his mind for days. “Sir, what are you looking for?”



“Hmm?” Agil looked up. “What was that?”



“You go alone into the fields and woods and come back empty-handed. You go to hills like the Three Sisters. And you came here, to our village. I don’t think someone like you would come to Erdenec unless he had a reason.”



“And what would that reason be?” Agil’s voice was calm.



“I think you’re looking for something." For a dreadful moment, Macsen thought he’d gone too far.



Then Agil grinned. “I am,” he said. “It's called the Giant’s Mound.”



“What’s that?”



“Let me show you.” He reached over and turned several pages of THE LIFE OF THE KING. “In the middle of the page, the second paragraph down.” He pointed. “Read it.”



Macsen obliged. “In the late summer of the year 721 of the Blessed Messenger, terrible storms wracked this land of Perun. Much harm was done, and not far rom Inisi a ship was forced to the ground. All those souls onboard were slain, save one, a high noble of some distant land who claimed descent from the lords of long-dead Codal. He and his goods were brought to the King. In his possession, which drew the eyes of many, was a black box cut from an unknown wood, which he would not open. Cut into the top was the sigil of the leaping fish. The strange noble met with the King alone for many hours in private, letting none hear their words. When dawn came the man was dead. The King ordered him and his goods taken to the Giant’s Mound and would speak no more of it.” Macsen looked up. “I don’t understand.”



“Neither did I, at first.”



“Why are you looking for this place?”



“There's something in it I want.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, weary. “I’ve been here for months, trying to find the damnable place. ‘A great flat-topped mound, near Inisi,’ an old storyteller in Anunin told me that...vague, to say the least. Perun, I have found, is rife with mounds and hills, and every one has a ghost story associated with it.”



“What about the Gallows Pit?” Macsen asked. Years later he'd remember that moment.



Agil looked up. “What did you say?”



“The Gallows Pit, near the old Quarry Hill? That sounds close to what you said.”



Agil leaned closer very intent. “Macsen, tell me about this place. Leave nothing out.”



Macsen nodded, a bit nervous. “Its just...well, something old Magga told me.” He paused, trying to remember. “She was this old woman, died a few years back. Her husband passed long ago and she was a bit soft in the head, if you know what I mean...”



“Macsen!”



“I’m getting to it! She'd watch us when Galliarg was busy with else, and she would tell us stories. One was about the old Quarry Hill...”



“Is there a point to this, Macsen...”



“Magga said a hundred years back the quarry there was owned by two brothers. One of them began to fool with the others wife.” He blushed a bit, although no one who had grown up in a rural village surrounded by farms wouldn't know how living creatures reproduced. “The two of them killed her husband and took the land for themselves, only they were caught doing it. The chief at the time ordered hanged at the Gallows Pit. Seeing as how it was only a short walk from the quarry, it was only fitting.”



“How does any of this have to do with what I'm looking for?”



“Magga always told us to avoid the Gallows Pit, because it was haunted by all the men hanged there. Been going on for centuries. And the Quarry Hill is a flat-topped spot, except for where they been digging.”



Agil was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, “Do you know where this place is?”



“Er...yes.”



“All these months of searching, and the answer's been sitting here in my house every day... How far away is it?”



“Maybe a morning's walk.”



“Excellent.” Agil smiled. “We leave at first light.”



Download a pdf copy by clicking here, and share it with the world!

Paranormal Art

One of the things I like about Paranormal Romance is the cover art. Say what you will about superficiality, but having a striking cover on any book is like honey for the eyeballs. And the Paranormal Romance/Urban Fantasy covers, well they've definitely taken that idea to heart. Take a look at the cover of any book by Laurell Hamilton, Kim Harrison, Richelle Meade or...well, the list goes on, but you get the idea.

Check out Tracey Kitt's Blog on MySpace for a good example of  this rule. (BTW, she was the first friend I ever made here, so respect is given where it is due....)

The Unbearable Awfulness Of Waiting For The Sequel.

Two things to gripe about when it comes to the state of modern
fantasy fiction….



First, there is the tendency of authors and publishers, once they have a certified
franchise hit on their hands, to attempt to stretch it out for as long as possible.
By this, I mean long fantasy series like The Wheel of Time, the Sword of Truth,
or Laurel K. Hamilton…basically a series that starts out intended as trilogy,
then extends to a pentology, and then before you know it its fourteen volumes
long with no end in sight…



The reason usually given for the case of the Never-Ending-Series is that the "the
story has grown" beyond what was originally conceived, and that the authors wants
more time ad place to explore the plot and tie up various subplots and loose ends.
Putting aside the question of why things got this expanded in the first place,
this reason would make sense if every book in the series was interesting to read.
But more often than not, after about book five or six the whole enterprise basically
turns into filler, one meaningless volume after another designed first and foremost
as a means to part the desperate fan from his money. With all due respect to Robert
Jordan - if anyone deserves the title of "the American Tolkien," it's him - but
after Lord of Chaos came out the Wheel of Time basically lost
steam. They could have gone straight to the Last Battle, skipping the twenty or
thirty books that followed, and the plot wouldn't have skipped a beat. And once
it was done, Jordan could have moved on to write Infinity of Heaven before
being so cruelly taken from us (wonder if Brandon Sanderson will tackle that project
after he's finished up with A Memory of Light. And why the heck is it
being split up into three more volumes?)



Which leads me to the second part of this rant; if an author is going to stretch
out a series to seven, eight, or twenty books, shouldn't he try to deliver each
installment in a reasonable amount of time? A Feast for Crows came out
FOUR years ago, and so far no sign f the next book in the series, A Dance
of Dragons. What makes it even more troubling is the fact that they were
supposed to be one book that got split up in two, with the second supposedly ready
follow a year later. Now, to be fair, every writer has his own way of working,
and more often than not has several other projects in the works at once. (A
Game of Thrones is coming to HBO as a TV series….joy!) but at some point
you have to produce. It's the fans that buy the books, and the longer they wait,
the greater chance their interest in the whole enterprise will wane.



Consider this…in the years since A Feast for Crows was published, the
entire Twilight Saga has been published, all four books. Granted, Stephanie
Meyer isn't in the same league as Martin or Jordan…but still, four books in four
years, and she brought the series to a satisfactory conclusion…at least for now.




Thoughts, anyone?

A New Golden Age

Is it just me, or are we living in a new Golden Age of Fantasy Fiction? Twenty years ago this whole genre was seen as beyond the pale. Tolkien, Dungeons & Dragons, imagination in general, all seen as realm of the awkward and hopelessly adenoidal. To be fair, a lot of the crappy movies made in the genre didn't really help--anyone remember Krull? The movie version of Gor? ANYTHING with the word 'Barbarian' in it? (Not to mention Dungeons & Dragons: The Movie...I still can't think of it without a shudder...)

But now it's different. Now Fantasy is at the top of the cultural heap, or so it seems. If you go to the bookstore, there seem to be dozens of new novels out every week. Fantasy movies no longer suck...instead they take over the world with good production values (think Peter Jackson, Geek God.) Hybrid subgenre's of the field like Paranormal Romance are booming. It's taking over the world.

But...to be honest, I'm not totally comfortable with it. Back in the day, when only those who loved it paid attention, it seemed like a hidden treasure only you and few others in the know truly understood. The rest of the world didn't 'get' it, but you did...and so what if they mocked you for it? Cracking open the Dragonlance novel was like opening a door to another world,full of wonderful things not everyone could see. Now, I don't know....

So my question is...by going mainstream, does fantasy lose something that made it unique? What do you think?

Stealing the Eye

Here is one
of the very first stories I ever wrote. It might seem a bit stereotypical, like
something out of a late-night Dungeons & Dragons session....but I had fun
writing it....available FREE for download in the Stories section of the website.

Stealing the Eye

By Jon Connington



The news carried through the streets and alleys, the mansions
of the wealthy and the pits of the desperate.



“It’s coming!”



“What’s coming?”



“It! They’re sending it here!”



“You’re not making any sense, mate.”



“The Eye of Belek. It’s coming to Gandrilor!”



“The Eye? You’re not having a laugh?”



“It’s the truth! The Prince of Kolistar is sending the Eye here! Part of the
peace treaty, see?”



“My Gods, the Eye of Belek....”



“The one and only.”



“Imagine if we could get our hands on it....”

“Imagine if a thief got his hands on it.” Lord Borrell mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “The shame! The ignominy! Our family would never recover”

“Then why did you agree to protect it?” asked Alicia as two guardsmen passed by carrying a strongbox.

“Don’t be foolish, niece. Being custodian of the Eye is a rare honor, a sign of the Council’s favor.” Lord Borrell paused as the strongroom door slammed shut. “Still, I will be happy when it is safely in the Palace.”
Alicia tossed her long red hair over her shoulder. “Uncle,” she asked in a wheedling voice, “please, can I see it?”

“Alicia....”

“Please?”

“I gave you my answer yesterday and it’s the same today. No!”

“But I won’t tell anyone! I promise.”

“The Council has decreed that none may see the Eye of Belek before the official presentation, not even me....”

“Uncle....”

“Do not ask me again!”

Alicia gave him her most withering glare, but the fat old fool was standing firm, one hand fiddling with his eye patch.

“Hmph!” Piqued, Alicia flounced away.

It was a regular night at the Two Bears, which in any other drinking establishment would qualify as something just short of a riot. Of all the low-down, beer-and-bloodstained thieves kitchens in the Low District of Gandrilor, it was by far the darkest, dankest and most notorious. On any given night there mingled in its smoky taproom and private booths the bottom scrapings of Gandrilorian society; thieves, murderers, grave robbers, poison sellers, purveyors of illegal potions, ladies of negotiable company, mixed in with the usual assortment of gamblers, brawlers and drunks looking for a good time at someone else’s expense. When dawn came there were often a few corpses waiting to be hauled away by the body-snatchers who then sold the cadavers to the necromancers for their unspeakable experiments.

On this night a light drizzle was falling across the city, turning the grime that coated the Lowd District into a sticky muck that clung to everything and made the normally fetid air in the tavern even thicker. Seated in a back corner booth, Irnek the Green sipped his mug of muddy ale and grimaced. “I swear, this swill gets worse every day,” he muttered.

“Flavored by the finest in dead flies and drowned rats,” said his associate Miko, seated across from him, who swigged from his mug and sighed contentedly. “After a few rounds you hardly notice anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah. Do you have it?”

Miko slid a small pouch towards him. “This was not easy to find.”

“That’s why I came to you.” Irnek looked inside. “Outstanding.”

“My money.” Miko held out his palm and two gold coins. A serving maid came by and he ordered another round, then saw Irnek gazing away with a mooncalf expression. “Not again!”

“There she is,” Irnek muttered. Standing by the bar was a woman, slim and petite, wearing tight leather trousers and a black jerkin, her blond hair worked into a braid that fell over a shoulder. She laughed as a burly fellow with a longsword as his side chatted her up. “Arnea.”

“You do this every night, Irnek. Why don’t you just talk to her?”

“She’ll laugh. A woman like that won’t waste her time on me.”

“She’s a thief, Irnek.”

“The best in the city.”

“And you’re a wizard....”

“I’m barely an acolyte! I have no power to speak of.” Irnek noted how the twin curved daggers she wore bounced fetchingly off her hips. Sighing, he grabbed a mug and drained the contents without complaint.

Across the taproom, dice rattled across a crowded table. “Six and three!”

Curses and groans followed. Telky Two-Toes scooped up the dice and kissed them. “The luck gods are on my side! What say, lads? Anyone else?”

The other gamblers reached into their money pouches. One of them growled, “I’ll see ye, Telky, yer luck has gotta run out sooner or later! Double it up!”

Coins rained down, more wagers being made. The dice rolled. “Four and five! Beat that, ye arrogant snot!”

Telky grinned, scooping the bones into his hand. None of them saw his fingers flicker, switching the dice in his palm for the loaded pair up his sleeve. It had taken years of practice to become that smooth. He made his throw. “Six and five! Thanks for your money, friend....”

Two men watched the game from the shadows. “Did you see that?”

“The trick with the fingers? He’s good.”

“He’s very good...but not too smart. Else he’d know that no one plays a bent game in here ‘less they’re working for me.”

“You want me to break his fingers?”

“Nah, not yet. Let’s keep watching.”

Miko slurped down his ale and belchedy. “All's I’m saying is, if you think Arnea’s the kind of woman who needs to be impressed, then you should do something to impress her.”

Irnek stared blearily at his friend. Somehow the ale didn’t taste so bad now. “Like...like what?”

“I dunno....she’s a thief, yeah? So...why not steal something?”
“Me, steal something?”

“S...something big...gets people talking. That’ll get her attention and no mistake.”

“Like what?”

“Well....” Miko marshaled his drink-sodden wits. “How about the Eye of Belek?”

“It’s here in Gandrilor?”

“Yes, it is!” In another booth a scarred hand yanked the ragged curtain closed. “It arrived yesterday, send by the Prince as part of the peace settlement.”

“I’ve heard of it, Master.” Valo the minion pictured it in his mind. “They say it’s a ruby the size of a hen’s egg, the largest ever found. They say unknown magicks are hidden in it....”

“They sat many things, cretin!” The sorcerer known as Bazalik the Thrice-Accursed (wise men knew better than to ask why) steepled his fingers before his nose. “But if I could unlock it’s mysteries, then I could open the Gate of Nine Unspeakable Monstrosities! Unlimited power would be at my command! This city and all the vermin in it would call me Master....”

It was a familiar rant, and Valo waited until Bazilek was done before pointing out, “Too bad it’s locked up tight in the Palace, Master.”

“Ah, but it isn’t!” Within the depths of his robe, Bazilek smiled. “I have it on good authority that the Eye is being kept in the mansion of Lord Borrell. The fools think that will confuse any thieves looking for it. Which is good for you.”

“For me, Master?”

“Yes.” Glowing yellow eyes bored into the weaselly little man. "Because you are going to steal it for me....”

“Double sixes! See ‘em and weep!” Telky laughed as he scooped up the dice with his right hand and the money with his left.

“You’re uncommon lucky tonight, Telky,” one of the other gamblers muttered.

“Just the roll of the dice, lad, just the roll of the dice. Who wants another go?” There were only mutters at that. “Double or nothing! Double or nothing! Any takers?” No one bit, they’d lost enough already. This had been a very good night for him....

“I’ll take that bet.” A gravelly voice cut through the din. Telky froze, the winnings dribbling from his fingers.

A fat man with small hard eyes forced his way through the crowd, flanked on either side by a tall, grim-looking thug. His name was Granik and he was the biggest, meanest and most unforgiving crime lord in the Low District, and the owner of the Two Bears. His gaze fastened onto Telky like a snake on a mouse it was about to swallow. “Double or nothing, is it?”

“I...changed my mind,” Telky forced out.

“You can’t back out now.” He held out his hand. “Dice.” One of the thugs placed a pair in his hands. “Let’s play.”

Mouth dry, Telky rattled the dice in his hand.

“Wait.” Granik set his down. “New rule. We switch bones.”

“That ain’t right.”

“My place, my rules. Hand ‘em over.” A white-faced Telky obeyed without question. “Roll ‘em.” The dice bounced across the table. “Three and two. That’s not good. My turn.” Granik's eyes never left Telky, not even looking down as he made his throw. There was no need.

“Let me guess,” Granik said. “Double sixes. Looks like I win.”
Telky bolted from the table, headed for the door. Two of the bouncers moved to intercept. One tripped Telky as he ran past, the other grabbed his arms and hauled him upright.

One of the thugs approached. “Bring ‘im along,” he said. “The Boss wants a word with this one.”

“I’ll do it!” Irnek shoved the empty mug away. “I’ll steal it!”

“Pshaw! I’d pay t’ see...see that....” Miko’s head swayed.

“You...you watch me. I’ll...s..slip it round her neck. Then she’ll like me, Miko. Miko?” He saw his friend passed out on the table.
In another booth one of the middlemen who did business here was meeting with a customer. “I have what you want.”

“It’s about time.” It was a woman’s voice, but that was all he knew, after three months of dealing he had yet to see her face. Loose trousers, baggy tunic, hooded cloak, and that damnable mask around her face...it could have been anyone. She called herself the Nightcat, and it was a name many had come to know in the past year. Across the city there had been a rash of burglaries. Gold, jewels, priceless works of art, all had been lifted, their guards found tied up, their owners passed out from the sleep darts in their neck. And at every theft there was left behind a card with an elegantly painted black cat on it. The Council had already placed a bounty on her capture.

The middleman didn’t know much more about her, it wasn’t his job to ask questions. Besides, she paid on time. He slid a wrapped bundle across the table. The Nightcat opened it and looked. “Very lovely.”

“But not free.”

“Never fear.” A money bag landed before him. “I always pay for quality.”

The middleman checked inside, his eye greeted by the shine of gold. When he looked up again the Nightcat was gone, and the goods with her.

In a room upstairs, Telky was dropped into a chair. Granik eased his bulk behind his desk and ran his fat paw through the mess of coins piled on top. “Quite a haul,” he said. “Your big score?”

Telky didn’t answer, could barely keep himself from trembling. Graniks reputation got worse with every year. If he was lucky he might get out of here with only a few missing fingers.

“Now,” said Granik, “about your debt....”

“My debt?”

“Double or nothing, remember? There was...how much, Harald?”

“Six hundred gold crowns and thirty silvers on the table, Mister Granik” said one of the thugs. “And two pennies.”

“What he said.” Granik gave a cruel smile. “So you owe me twelve hundred gold crowns, and double all the small change.#8221;

“I don’t...I don’t have that much....” No one did, it was more than an honest man could earn in ten years or a crooked man in five....

“I figured. But you still owe. I’ll give you ‘til dawn to come up with the coin, or I start taking payment out of your hide.”

“That ain’t enough time....”

“Not my problem. Harald here just bought a new knife. He’s been looking for a chance to use it.”

The thug tapped the dagger at his side. “Dawn in a few hours, boyo. Youse best get cracking.”

Telky was escorted out, stumbling through the tavern door. He bent over a gutter and vomited noisily, the enormity of what just happened sinking in. There was no way he could get that kind of money by sunrise. He was a dead man....

“...here in the city!” Two men walked by. “The Eye of Belek. Can you believe it?”

Back in the Two Bears, Granik told Harald, “Wait ‘til dawn, then hunt him down. Take your time with Telky, I want an example made of him.”

“Yes, Mister Granik.”

Granik picked up a silver piece from the desk. "What a waste. He was a good earner.” He flipped Harald the coin. “Run out and get some of that fried fish I like. Dice always gives me an appetite.”

The rain had stopped when Irnek arrived at the Borrell mansion. Leaning against a wall, he popped another piece of chappa root into his mouth, the sour juices counteracting the effects of the ale. He would need a clear head for the night’s work.

The ancestral home of the Borrells, like most of the residences of the great and mighty in Gandrilor, resembled a miniature fortress with a few decorative touches tacked on almost as an afterthought. The surrounding wall was ten feet high and topped with iron spikes. The main building beyond had tiny windows set with thick iron bars, glowing in the night like malevolent yellow eyes. Armed guards patrolled the grounds and doubtless more would have been added with the Eye in residence.

This was crazy. It was suicide. He was risking the gallows or worse. But Irnek didn’t even consider turning back. Love, or at least something fairly close to it, drove him onwards.

And he didn’t come unprepared. Irnek opened pouch he’d gotten from Miko only hours before. Spitting out the chappa pulp, he took out a pinch of the gray powder inside and gingerly placed it on his tongue. As expected the taste was incredibly bitter, like a thousand lemons concentrated into one tiny point, but that was overwhelmed by the jolt of energy racing through his body. His vision swam for a moment and he leaned against the wall until his head cleared.

Irnek felt lighter, as if his weight had been cut in half. He jumped up and found himself floating through the air. Reaching the top of the wall, he grabbed the edge and halted, hovering ten feet above the street below.

It worked. He had only a few minutes before the effects wore off, but that would be enough. Irnek climbed over the iron spikes and launched himself upwards. He sailed over the courtyard and bumped into the wall of the mansion. He dug his fingers into cracks between the bricks and pulled himself up, headed to the tower where rumor said the Eye was being kept.

Not long now. Soon it would be his, a ruby the size of a hens egg. He imagined the look on Arnea’s face when he showed it to her, when he draped it around her neck, the stone gleaming against her bare skin. He imagined how she might express her gratitude at such a gift...oh yes, he imagined....

On the other side of the mansion a guard fell quietly to the ground, a bump growing on the back of his head. Telky slipped the cosh back onto his belt and opened the bag over his shoulder, pulling out a grappling hook and line. He hurled it up, hearing a distant clink as the hook caught on the edge of the roof. The points dug in and he gave the rope a final tug. With a deep breath, Telky started to climb. Only a few hours until dawn. With luck he’d arrive at the Two Bears with the Eye of Belek in his hand. Granik would take it with shaking fingers and pronounce the debt free and clear. Telky would depart with all his fingers and toes, free to scheme and hustle once more, although in future he would stay away from taverns frequented by crime lords....

A large growth of ivy climbed up the western face of the mansion, blocking the view to Telky’s left. He didn’t see Valo crawling up the face of the building, climbing claws on his hands and feet digging into the stonework, letting him move like a squirrel up a tree. Along the roof the Nightcat moved like her namesake across the tiles. All were focused on the squat tower rising from the northwest corner of the mansion, the single window glowing faintly.

Irnek halted before the window and looked inside. No sign of the Eye and no sign of any guards. A single lamp hung from the ceiling. He took the small onyx wand hanging from his belt and pressed his thumb against the rune carved into the side. A jet of brilliant white energy shot out. He pressed the tip against the iron bars in the window, sweat beading on his face as he cut through each one and piling them to the side.

The last bar broke free. Irnek waited a moment for the iron stubs to cool and climbed through the window. His feet pressed against the floor of the strong room, his eyes taking in the sight. Chests were piled high against the wall, the top of one open, Irnek seeing the gold coins piled inside. He looked away with some regret. Another time, perhaps. In the center of the room was a pedestal, on top of which was an ironbound strongbox. He pressed the wandtip against the lock and popped it free, then opened the lid.

And there it was, nestled on a bed of velvet. A ruby, the largest ever found, cut and polished until it shone like a blood-red star. The Eye of Belek. Irnek picked it up, his fingers caressing the hard surface and perfect edges. Priceless didn’t even begin to describe it.

The light from the lamp flickered a moment. “Give it here,” said Telky, standing behind Irnek. He’d come through the window without being heard. Telky raised the sword in his hand. “I will cut you down, wizard or not.” The tip pointed at Irnek’s neck.

A puff of air blew across them both. The door to the strongroom swung open and in walked the Nightcat, pointing a crossbow at Telky. “Then I’ll shoot you,” she said, “and take the ruby. Works out fine for me.”

Irnek pointed the wand at her and she stopped. There they stood, weapons pointed at each other, the pedestal between them all. Eyes shifted nervously, at the ruby, at one another. This outcome was the last thing they expected. “I shoot this wand,” Irnek said, “and there’ll be a hole where your nose was.”

“Not if I put this shaft through your eye,” the Nightcat retorted.
“I’ll spike you both if you don’t give me the stone,” Telky growled.

“Not a chance.” Irnek tightened his grip on the Eye.

Then there was a loud clatter. All three jumped in shock and looked to the window. Valo was climbing through, puffing like a dying cow. As he came in he knocked down all the iron bars Irnek had carefully stacked on the windowsill.

The clangs echoed around the room, out the door and down the hallway outside. A heartbeat later someone called out, “What was that? Who’s there?”

“Damn!” The Nightcat lunged for the ruby. Irnek tried to dodge and instead she hit his wrist, sending it flying. The Eye skittered across the floor and came to rest below the window. Valo looked down, picked it up and grinned. “Thanks!”

He dropped out of sight, headed down the wall.

The Nightcat ran to the window. “Oh no you don’t!” muttered Irnek as he snapped out a cantrip. A puddle of grease appeared beneath her feet and the Nightcat slipped, landing flat on her back with a loud, “Oof!” Irnek took a step and was nearly yanked off his feet as Telky grabbed his shirt. The magic powder was still in effect and he was light as a feather, easy to manhandle. Telky pulled the back of Irneks tunic over his head and shoved him away, bouncing him off the stacked chests like a ball of rags, his hands flailing about helplessly.

Telky hopped over the grease and grabbed his rope. Down below he saw Valo crawling towards the ground like a spider. “Hey! Stop!” Telky yelled as he rappeled down.

Irnek yanked his shirt back and went to the window. Cursing, he leapt into the air, floating down like a leaf in the wind, past Telky who looked on in surprise. Down below, Valo was legging it across the courtyard towards an open side door in the outer wall.

The Nightcat slid away from the grease puddle and got to her feet. She looked out the window and saw Irnek run out the side door, Telky following behind. Down the hall she heard footsteps and shouts of alarm.

She picked up the crossbow. The bolt had been knocked free, but it was still cocked. Reached into the quiver at her side, she pulled out a new bolt, one of several she had bought at the Two Bears only hours before. She leaned out the window and took aim at the temple across the street from the mansion, at the top of its high tower, one of the tallest in the city.

The bolt whistled free. As it went, it left behind a trail of black smoke that hung in the air. At the tip of the shaft was a metal fist instead of a point which opened as it flew. The bolt reached the top of the temple tower, the enchanted metal fingers grabbing the ancient parapet, encrusted with centuries of dried bird droppings, taking a firm unbreakable hold. A moment later the smoke solidified into a black rope.

The guards were coming. The Nightcat took the rope, pulled it tight and jumped. She swung down, the cloak flapping behind, arrows whistling past as archers crowded at the window. “The Eye!” one of them bellowed into the night. “They’ve taken the Eye!”

The Nightcat sailed over the outer wall, missing the iron spikes at the top by inches. She hit the ground, let go of the rope and took off down the street.

Valo ducked into an alleyway and stopped to catch his breath. He held up the Eye, marveling at it’s beauty. The Master was going to be pleased....

The ruby flew out of his fingers as Irnek tackled him. The wizard saw it bounce across the ground and bump against a tall crate filled with refuse. Jabbing his elbow into Valo’s kidney, he scrambled to his feet and picked it up. “Mine!”

He turned around with a smile, just as Telky’s fist belted him across the face, sending him flying back, knocking over the crate. The Eye flew up into the air. Telky reached out and catched it. “Ha! Gotcha!”

“Hey!” The Nightcat entered the alleyway. Before Telky could react she kicked him in the fork of his legs. The ruby dropped from his fingers as he dropped to his knees.

The Nightcat picked up the Eye of Belek. “At last,” she breathed. “It’s mine....” She heard the footsteps a second too late. Valo rose up behind her and dropped the crate over her head, pushing it down as far as her elbows, pinning her arms to her sides. The ruby fell away as the Nightcat staggered about, bumping against a wall, gagging at the smell of rotten potatos peelings and worse.

Valo scooped up the ruby and ran, disappearing into the night only moments before a squad of city watchman hustled up, drawn by the cries of alarm.

The Nightcat lifted the crate off her and tossed it to the side, her head and shoulders draped in offal, just as the watchmen arrived. For a moment they stood there, looking at a masked woman covered with scraps, another man bent over in pain, a third cradling his jaw. It wasn’t something they saw on an average night.

Then, as one, all three thieves ran for it, the Nightcat one way down the street, Irnek leaping over the watchmen, landing heavily as the powder finally wore off and headed the other way, Telky hobbling down the alley.

“After them!” shouted the sergeant in charge of the squad. The watchmen split up and gave chase.

Irnek ran down the street, watchmen close behind. He reached into the pouch, put another pinch of the powder into his mouth, and ducked down an alley. The guards followed right after and stopped. “Where’d he go?” one of them said.

Above, Irnek landed on a roof and quickly lay himself flat. He waited until the watchmen moved on before standing back up and leaping across the street to the roof of the next building and then the one beyond that, headed to safety, his jaw throbbing.

A few blocks over, more guardsmen stood below an arch. “I know she went this way,” one of them said. “I saw ‘er.”
“Mebbe she doubled back.”

The watchmen turned around. As soon as they were gone, the Nightcat dropped down from the shadows at the top of the arch, letting go of the handholds. She landed lightly and went in the other direction, leaving behind only the silence of her steps, and the faint odor of spoiled food.

Telky reached an intersection, where the alley split into two branches. He ducked down one and pressed himself into an alcove. A moment later the watchmen followed and ran down the other way. He waited until the echoed of their footsteps faded. Gritting his teeth, he gingerly limped onwards. This was definitely not one of his better nights.

Dawn.

In the secret lair of Bazalik the Thrice-Accursed, Valo wearily came in through the door. “Master,” he called out, “ I have it!”

“Bring it here.”

Bazalik eagerly took the Eye of Belek. “Well done, Valo!” he said, holding it up to a lamp. “Soon it’s secrets shall be mine! You will be well rewarded for your loyalty, well rewarded....” His words trailed away. A thunderous expression appeared on his face. “Valo, you IDIOT!”

“M...Master?”

Bazilek put the jewel on a table, picked up a hammer and brought it down hard. The ruby, the Eye of Belek, shattered to pieces with a tinkly crunch. “Glass!” Bazilek screamed. “Colored glass! It was a decoy, you blithering nincompoop!”

“But that’s not possible...I only did what you told me....” Bazilek picked up a black wand. “No, no, please Master, don’t turn me into a frog!”

“When I’m done with you, you’ll wish I turned you into a frog!” Bazilek aimed the wand at his minion, who squawked and dove for cover. A bolt of amethyst-colored fire blasted a chunk out of the wall behind Valo, covering him in rubble. Gibbering, he ran around the edge of the room, Bazilek taking two more shots. The first hit a bookcase, sending heavy tomes flying like they were twigs. The second struck a bubbling glass beaker on a charcoal brazier, instantly filling the entire lair with thick purple smoke.

Valo fumbled his way to the door and ran out, several more wild blasts sizzling past him. “Come back, Valo!” Bazilek shrieked from somewhere inside. “Come back so I can shoot you!”

Dawn found Irnek back in the Two Bears, nursing an aching jaw and a broken heart.

He’d failed. The ruby had been his, he’d had the Eye of Belek in his damn hands, and he'd had still failed. Now it was gone, probably three cities away by now and broken into a dozen pieces. He’d lost any chance with Arnea, a swollen jaw wasn’t going to impress her. Irnek tried to count his blessings. At least he hadn’t lost any teeth. It had been a glancing blow, the swelling would be gone within a week. Somehow it didn’t seem a fair trade, Arnea was likely already snuggled with some big sword-swinging lunk, it was enough to make him weep....

A shadow fell across his table. “Go away, Miko,” Irnek growled. “I’m not in the mood.”

“If that’s what you want.” A woman’s voice spoke.

He looked up in surprise. “Arnea!”

The petite beauty, flower of the Low District, stood there. “I heard you made a run at Lord Borrells strongroom,” she said in that throaty voice that made men weak at the knees.

“Er...that’s right....”

“Did you get anything?”

He shook his head.

“Pity.” His heart sank even further at that.

“Still,” Arnea then said, “that took a lot of guts. No one else would have tried it. I’m impressed.”

“You’re impressed?”

Arnea sat gracefully down on his lap. Her fingers traced the bruise on his face. “Why don’t you tell me about it,” she purred.

And despite his aching jaw, Irnek smiled.

As the dawn light filtered through the dingy streets of the Low District, Telky sat in a winesink trying to drown his sorrows. The pain from that kick was starting to fade, but that was nothing compared to the despair running through him. Twelve hundred crowns, that’s what he owed. He could only imagine what Granik would have his boys do, for sure he'd make an example of Telky for all the other gamblers looking to play crooked....

“Well, at least you didn’t run.”

Harald was standing next to him. “So it’s you, the,” Telky said in a resigned voice.

“Pardon?”

“What’s it gonna be? My right hand, or left?”

Harald paused a moment before answering. “Neither.”

Telky blinked. “I don’t follow.”

“I guess you ain’t heard. Granik’s dead.”

“Dead,” exclaimed Telky. “How?”

“Choked on a fishbone, the poor bastard. Happened just after you left.” A full cup was set in front of Harald. “The man did love his fried fish.” He drained the drink to its dregs.

Telky breathed with relief. “So I’m free and clear.”

“I wouldn’t say that. See, me and the lads had a...discussion after the event, and it was agreed that I’d be taking over the business. And your debt is still on the books.”

The despair rushed back. His luck had deserted him, he was sunk. “I didn’t have the money to pay Granik,” Telky said, “and I don’t have the money to pay you now.”

“I figured. But...here’s the thing. The fish that sent old Granik onwards, it was bought with the money he took from you. So in a way, I have you to thank for my sudden change in fortune.”

“Well, I....”

“Don’t get me wrong, you still owe what you owe. But I figure it’s going to take three days to sort out Graniks affairs, so you have ‘til then to raise the coin. And if I come to collect and it turns out you’re not in the city, well...I won’t waste the time hunting you down, not when I have other fish to fry, no pun intended.” Harald pulled a silver piece out of a pocket and lay it on the bar. “Have a drink on me, boyo. See you in three days, or not.” And with that he ambled off.

Telky picked up the coin and stared at it. Then he told the barman, “Bring me another. Make it a big one.”

It was amazing what could happen in a single night.

As the sun crept past the horizon, a window opened in a lady’s bedroom, and in slipped the Nightcat, red-faced with fury under her mask. Unbelievable! That little squit ran off with the Eye, leaving her stumbling around like a buffoon! Well, she’d find him, she’d have her prize, something like that wasn’t going to stop the her....She opened a closet and the hidden compartment in the back of it, stowing her crossbow and the rest of her gear, stripping off the baggy dark clothes, the mask and the cloak. Her long red hair fell free and she grimaced at that rotten potato smell. Gods, what a stink, it would take days to be rid of it....

She picked out a robe and put it on. As she did there was a knock at the bedroom door. “Alicia? Niece?” came a muffled voice. “Are you decent?”

Alicia quickly closed the closet. “Yes Uncle! Come in!”

The door opened and Lord Borrell entered. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Uncle. Why?”

“There was a bit of excitement last night. Some thieves broke into the strongroom. After the Eye of Belek, I think.”

“Good grief!” she replied, trying to hide her nervousness. “I must have slept right through it! Did they succeed?”

“I’m glad to say they did not. No, the Eye is safe and sound.”

That didn’t make any sense. “But if they got into the northeast tower...”

“Alicia, I’d hardly place a treasure like the Eye in my strongroom, not with every thief in Gandrilor after it! First place they’d look.”

“Then what did they take?”

“A very clever reproduction, made from colored glass. I’d love to see the looks on their faces when they find out....”

Then the Eye was still here. “So, if it’s not in the strongroom, where is it?”

Lord Borrell scratched his fat bristly chin. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you.” He slid his fingers under his eye patch and turned them about a bit. There was a fleshy pop, and then he held up the Eye of Belek. “Safe as it can be,” Lord Borrell said triumphantly. “No thief would look for it in there.”

“Very clever, Uncle.”

“Would you like to hold it? The ruby glittered, even though it was covered in sweat.

“Ah, no thank you, Uncle.”

“Very well, then.” Lord Borrell lifted up the patch and with a soft squelch slipped the stone back into his eye socket. He sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose. “Is that a new perfume you’re wearing?”

“Er...yes it is, Uncle.”

“Hmph! I’ll never understand these new fashions!” Lord Borrell waddled off.

Alicia sat down on her bed, her mind working furiously. Still two days before the official presentation. She could slip something into her Uncles tea, send him into a sleep deep enough to ignore an earthquake, enter his bedroom just after midnight, when the guards were changing shifts....

Then all she had to do was fish around in Lord Borrell’s sweaty, smelly, slimy eye socket....“There’s not enough money in the world,” she muttered.

And with that, Alicia the Nightcat summoned a maid and ordered a warm bath drawn up.